


Christmas Ceilidh

by Fire_Bear



Series: Kilts [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ceilidh, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Kilts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 08:56:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5369351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Bear/pseuds/Fire_Bear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is forced into a kilt for a ceilidh by his half-brother. Not pleased with the arrangement, he soon forgets his woes when he spots the American he met a few weeks before...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Ceilidh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zeplerfer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeplerfer/gifts).



> This is a Christmas present cause I'm too much of a coward to put my name in for the USUK Secret Santa thingy. I hope it has enough kilts, ceilidh, fluff and smut for ya, Zeplerfer.

He _did_ like parties. Honestly. He'd just never been to a ceilidh before. 

Arthur hovered at the side of the large hall of the Union, watching people flitting around. Popular music was playing through the speakers, a small DJ's stage set up in the corner and out of the way. On the permanent stage were a few seats and music stands, waiting for the band to come on. Tinsel and baubles hung from the ceiling, one particular bit of red tinsel drooping a little as if it was about to fall completely. Tables were squashed along one edge of the room, red tablecloths covering them with a little snowman in the centre for decoration. All the young women were in beautiful dresses; some long, others short. The men... Well, most of the men were wearing suits, a few of them wearing that Scottish necessity for such an event: the kilt.

Andrew had still lied to him, though.

A few weeks before the event, he had made the mistake of talking about it to his half-brother who he had been visiting on the other side of Glasgow. He had mentioned that, though he had never been to a ceilidh before, he would be attending since it was a charity event. Andrew had taken unnecessary interest and had turned up at his student halls a few days ago with a kilt.

“What the hell is that?!” Arthur had exclaimed, glad his flatmate was out.

“What's it look like, eejit,” Andrew had retorted before pushing his way in. “C'mon,” he had added once he had plopped down onto the couch. “Let me see it on ye.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur had stood in front of him, hands on hips. “Why would I want to wear it?”

“'Cause I bought it for ye?”

“ _What_ ?! Aren't kilts  _really_ expensive?!”

“Aye,” Andrew had admitted, grinning. “So it wouldn't do ta no wear it, right?”

“Fuck off. For God's sake, why'd you buy it?”

“For that ceilidh ye're goan tae.”

“I do  _not_ need fashion advice from a thirty-something-” Arthur had begun but Andrew had glowered at him, making him shut up: he was in front of the only crappy TV he had. He didn't want to lose it because his brother rugby tackled him into it.

“It's no a matter o'  _fashion_ – you gotta wear a kilt at a ceilidh. It's, like, an unwritten law.  _Everyone'll_ be in 'un.”

Arthur had paused at that, brow furrowed. “Wait, seriously.”

“Yeah.”

“Come off it – it's not like they're not going to let me in.”

“They will – you'll just look like a pillock.”

“Oh, for-” Arthur had grabbed the kilt. “I'll put it on if it'll make you shut up.”

And so he had. However, when he had returned without the sporran, Andrew had made a fuss over it. Then the older man had shown him how to put it on with lots of unnecessary touching, in Arthur's opinion. Afterwards, he had stepped back, nodded in approval – and then flipped the kilt.

“What the fuck, Andy?!” Arthur had yelped, pulling the garment down.

“You're wearing underwear.”

“Of course I am.”

“But you gotta go true Scotsman or I'll be embarrassed.”

“ _You'll_ be embarrassed- Wait. What's a 'true Scotsman'?”

Andrew had rolled his eyes. “A true Scotsman never wears underwear. Have ye never seen Braveheart?”

Screwing up his face in disgust, Arthur had replied, “You mean that bit where they mocked the English on the field? And you know fine well I've seen it – you make me watch it every year I turn up for your birthday.”

Grinning, Andrew had nodded. “Aye. And ye cannae wear this tartan and hae underwear.”

Looking down, Arthur took in the grey and green material, a faint red running through it. “Why? What kind of tartan is it?”

“Auld Scotland. I wear it, too. But ye cannae disrespect it, like.”

“Fuck off. It's not even a family tartan.”

“They don't make 'Kirkland' tartan – and I wisnae gonna make one just fer this.”

“Oh, thanks,” Arthur had said, rolling his eyes.

“Whatever. Just...” Without warning, Andrew had flicked up the kilt again. This time, before Arthur could sort himself out, Andrew grabbed the waistband of his boxers and jerked them down past his hips before letting them fall to the floor. Arthur had hastily covered himself with the kilt.

“What the  _fuck_ ?!” Arthur had yelled, cheeks burning red. 

“Don't be such a coward, mah dear brother,” Andrew had told him, smiling sickeningly sweet. “Dunnae wear underwear under yer kilt. It's very freeing.” And, with a last wink, Andrew had strode out of the door.

That was why Arthur was standing at the side of the room, shifting awkwardly every so often. He had, of course, taken his brother's advice and was now underwear-less and kilted up. In fact, Andrew had come to his flat that night to make sure he wore it and had come with the rest of the outfit: a white shirt, black jacket and bowtie, green kilt socks, shiny black shoes and a small knife he had insisted on putting down Arthur's sock. That was another reason he was uncomfortable – what if someone thought he was going to up and stab everyone?

“Don't be daft,” Andrew had told him as he had protested. “It's a sgian-dubh – no-one's gonna think ye're about t'murder anyone. Besides, no-one's gonna see it.”

So now he had a knife strapped to his ankle, no underwear and he couldn't drink alcohol in case he got too drunk and started flashing people. And, worst of all, the party hadn't really started and he was already bored. His flatmate had buggered off with his friends to the bar and he knew no-one else in the room. With his lack of boxers, he'd felt too awkward to approach a table and start a conversation so he was keeping to himself for the moment.

God knew what he'd do when the dancing started.

“All right, everyone!” came a voice from the stage. The feedback from that short phrase had everyone wincing but at least it had caught their attention. Apparently, while Arthur had been sulking, the band had set up. There was a fiddler, an accordionist, a drummer, a guitarist and they had even gone as far to get a flautist. When Arthur glanced up, he could see the fiddler wincing. “Sorry about that. How's about we get cracking? First dance is, of course, the Gay Gordons so grab a partner and let's get ye all in a big circle.”

Arthur once again scanned the room, looking for anyone in need of a companion. Most people were partnering up with their friends, though, most too shy to ask someone they were interested in. Others were clearly already in a relationship as evidenced by the way they hung off one another. There were a lot of Scots in the room, Arthur thought idly as he continued looking around, for a lot of them had already got into position: the 'women's hands aloft and the 'men's hands clasping theirs as they stood side by side.

His eyes were drawn to another kilt-wearer, this one moving around as he tried to find a partner. Lifting his eyes from the red and black tartan, his gaze swept over a white, v-neck shirt, the strings across the neck left loose. Then he reached the man's face and almost spilled his drink.

Alfred F. Jones was here and he was wearing a kilt.

The two of them had met a few weeks ago at another charity event: a speed date night. They had had a nice conversation and Arthur had wished he could have had more time. Luckily for him, Alfred quickly shoved a piece of paper into his hand, his number already scrawled on it: unluckily for him, he had gotten rather drunk that night and lost it.

As he stared at the computer science student, Alfred turned and their eyes locked. Embarrassed to be caught staring, Arthur looked away, seeing that the dance floor had become rather full. Interrupting his thoughts, the fiddler spoke into the microphone. “Come on. Don't be shy. We've got plenty of space in the middle.”

When Arthur looked over to confirm what he said, his eyes widened when he spotted Alfred striding confidently through the middle of the room. Straight towards Arthur. The American squeezed past another pair of couples and finally stood before Arthur, grinning at him, his brilliant blue eyes sparkling with excitement and joy.

“There ya are!” he exclaimed. “God, I thought I'd never see ya again. Why didntcha call?”

“Oh. Erm. I lost the... you know.” Arthur waved a hand to encompass everything, blushing terribly.

“Ah,” said Alfred, deflating a little.

“No!” Arthur cried, realising how that sounded. “I just... had too much to drink...”

With a bark of laughter, Alfred nodded. “Cool. Yeah. Er.”

Glancing at the dance floor, Arthur looked back to Alfred, staring past the lenses of his glasses and into those gorgeous eyes. “Did you... Did you want to dance?”

“Yeah.” Alfred grinned at him and, without waiting for an answer, he gently took Arthur's glass and set it down on a nearby table. Taking Arthur's hand he dragged him through the crowd and into the only available space. Arthur began to protest.

“God, not in the _middle_!”

“Don't worry,” said Alfred, spinning Arthur under his arm. “Nobody'll care.”

“That's not- Everyone will be _watching_ us.”

“So? Let 'em.” As they got into position, Arthur being forced to take on the 'women's role due to Alfred's height, the taller of the two leaned down and, in an apparent fit of confidence, whispered into Arthur's ear. “I want 'em to know that you're mine for the night.”

Arthur's cheeks turned red but he didn't have time to respond before the fiddler was talking again. “All right, people. Let me just run through the steps. It's forward for four, turn and back for four; forward for four, turn and back for four; men spin your partner under your arm for four; and then 'waltz' for four. And then we do it all again! Don't worry, I'll talk you through it for the first time 'round.”

“First time?” Arthur murmured.

He didn't have much time to take that implication in as the fiddler placed the bow against the violin and the band was off, playing a cheery tune. Then, counted in, the dancers started, marching forward in time. When Alfred spun Arthur under him, the Englishman tried his best not to blush when they caught each other's eyes. His embarrassment was made worse when he felt the kilt whirling around: it was getting rather draughty down there.

Even though Arthur was counting, there were several times when he forgot whether he was to spin or waltz. The confusion cost them valuable seconds and they were soon a little out of sync. Alfred laughed at this, seemingly having a good time. In contrast, Arthur started frowning, concentrating on the steps – at least until Alfred deliberately made mistakes, tugging at Arthur with a grin. They stumbled over themselves and Arthur couldn't help snorting in amusement. Alfred laughed again and they corrected themselves.

The music changed a little for a final flourish and everyone stopped, laughing and chatting. Arthur and Alfred had been in the waltz position and stayed like that as they stilled. Grinning, the American said, “Wanna dance together for the rest of the night?”

“Definitely.”

* * *

 

As it turned out, the rest of the dances were more fast-paced and a little confusing. Arthur and Alfred often tripped over themselves or went in the wrong direction. Fortunately, no-one minded; everyone laughed at their own mistakes so they were able to have a good time. For some of the dances, though, they had to change partners or have a third person join them and Arthur found he was a little disappointed that he didn't get Alfred all to himself. When he did, though, they tried to carry a conversation as much as possible – though it became rather difficult as they tried to remember the steps or became out of breath from the constant movement.

Eventually, the band wanted a break and Arthur fetched them some drinks to hydrate themselves as pop music was pumped through the speakers. Most of the dancers were now seated at the tables and Arthur wished he could as well but there were no more seats. It seemed the event had had a good turn out, perhaps better than had been anticipated. “God,” he said to Alfred, raising his voice over the background chatter and music. “It's hot in here.” He unbuttoned his shirt a little, barely noticing Alfred's eyes following his movements. Arthur would have smirked had he not been in pain. “My feet are killing me!”

Glancing down, Alfred tilted his head. “New shoes?” he asked, though he didn't raise his gaze. Arthur raised an eyebrow at that, wondering what was so fascinating.

“Yeah. Bit of a mistake, to be honest. But my brother practically forced me into this. Said it was a must and that everyone would be wearing one.” Arthur glared around the room. “Damned liar.”

“Well, I'm wearing one so you're not alone. And isn't that what matters?”

Arthur laughed. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He shifted his weight a little, wincing slightly.

“Hey, if you're real uncomfortable, we could go see if one of the conference rooms are open,” Alfred suggested. Then, after glancing around in an exaggerated surreptitious fashion, he leaned in to whispered in Arthur's ear once more. “Where we'd be _all alone_.”

Stilling, Arthur lost his breath, sure his heart had stopped for a moment. When his breath returned, he nodded, knowing his cheeks must be glowing. Alfred grinned, looking proud and, grabbing his hand, dragged him off. This time, Arthur kept hold of his drink: he had the feeling he'd need the alcohol within it to boost his own confidence.

Leaving the hall, Alfred turned to a set of double doors on their left. They passed through and the music quietened a little. Instead of going into the first room he saw, Alfred took Arthur past most of them and then up the stairs at the end of the hallway. At the far end of the upper corridor, he held the door open for Arthur and the shorter man entered the room. It was empty, the four tables pushed together devoid of activity. Vacant chairs were shoved under them. Whoever had used the room last had left the projector screen down but the lights were off and they were awarded with an amazing view of their university, lit up with the few street-lights around, trees obscuring some of them. To their right, Arthur could see distant traffic passing.

It was actually a rather romantic place to be.

“Wow,” he breathed.

“Right?” said Alfred behind him. “I love it here.”

“You use this room a lot?”

“Uh, yeah...” Arthur glanced over at him to find that the American was rubbing the back of his neck, looking rather nervous. “I, uh, I'm president of the role-playing society.”

“Role-playing...?” asked Arthur. “Like, dressing up and...?”

“Nah. Like, rolling dice and imagination.” Alfred stressed the last word and moved his hands as if to make a rainbow.

Arthur couldn't stop himself from laughing at Alfred's antics, leaning against the table to keep himself upright and taking the weight off his feet. “Is that the only club you're in?”

“Nah. There's the vintage video games club. And I'm in the swimming club, too.”

“Oh, really?” Arthur tried really hard not to let his eyes flicker down to Alfred's chest as the man moved closer and sat beside him.

“Really. How about you? What clubs are you in?”

“Ah, um...” Arthur wondered if talking about his rather more... _unique_ clubs would impress Alfred or put him off. And he really liked the guy, too. “Well... I'm in a crafts club and a club dedicated to the occult. Uh, there's only three of us and Vlad calls it a coven but I'm not sure that's going to attract members...” He chanced a peek at Alfred's expression.

The American seemed intrigued. “So you're, what, a wizard?”

Chuckling, Arthur shook his head. “It's not exactly like that. You could always come along and we could explain it better then.”

“Mm, yeah, sounds like a plan. 'Specially since I'd like to do something else now and I don't think a lecture on magic would help.”

Arthur paused at that, aware of his heart beginning to beat faster. “Oh? What, _exactly_ , do you want to do now?”

Grinning, Alfred reached up a hand to cup Arthur's cheek. Arthur leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed, managing to catch sight of Alfred leaning in before they shut completely. A soft touch on his lips had him holding his breath. Then Alfred pressed his lips against his and Arthur eagerly kissed back, his hand gripping onto Alfred's shirt. They shifted closer, Arthur letting his hand slide up to Alfred's shoulder.

A lick to his lips made Arthur slowly part them. Cautiously, Alfred let his tongue slip into Arthur's mouth and the Englishman moaned. Putting down his glass and pushing it aside, Arthur let his other hand land on Alfred's hip, though he didn't move it for fear of scaring Alfred off. After all, whatever this was, it was new and he had no knowledge of what Alfred was comfortable.

He needn't have worried for Alfred softly laid his hand on Arthur's knee, his thumb rubbing in circles. Arthur found himself moaning in delight. His cheeks flushed as he realised the noise he was making and he pulled away, eyes averted. “I-” he said, rather breathlessly.

Alfred chuckled. “I take it you liked that, hm?” He leaned in again, pressing a quick kiss to Arthur's lips.

“Yes,” Arthur mouthed against him, pressing light kisses against his mouth. Alfred deepened one of them, licking at Arthur's tongue till they tangled. At the same time, Alfred's hand began to travel north. Arthur's breath left him and a stray protest at Alfred's actions flitted across his mind for a moment. Seeing as he couldn't remember _why_ it was a bad thing for Alfred's fingers to trail along his inner thigh, he let Alfred continue as he wrapped his arms loosely around Alfred's neck.

The hand suddenly stopped just short of where Arthur truly wanted it. Without warning, Alfred pulled away from the kiss, blinking at Arthur in surprise. Arthur noted Alfred's red cheeks and his widening eyes. “W-What?” he asked, panting a little.

“You... Where's your underwear?”

“Wha-?” Arthur froze. “Fuck. No. That's- I don't- It's not like that, I swear!”

Alfred raised an eyebrow, his expression neutral. “What _is_ it like, then?”

“It's, um, my brother's – he's actually my half-brother – he's Scottish and he told me that you have to wear... well... _nothing_ under a kilt. Something about being a 'true Scotsman'.” Arthur nervously looked up at him. Would this be a problem for Alfred? Would he think he was a pervert?

Surprisingly, Alfred laughed, loud and free. “Dude. You don't _need_ to do that if you don't want to. Besides, you sound pretty English to me.”

Realisation dawned on Arthur. Andrew knew that he usually ended up with a shirt off when he drank too much – he had _planned_ on someone finding out. That _bastard_. If he'd ruined this night for him, he was going to _die_. _Painfully_.

“Fuck,” he said, to encompass this, glowering over Alfred's shoulder in the general direction of east.

“Ah,” Alfred said, ensnaring Arthur's attention once more. “I know you're embarrassed but...” He leaned forward and, for the third time that night, whispered into Arthur's ear. “It's kinda kinky.”

Colour flooded Arthur's face when he realised that, far from pulling away from him completely, Alfred still had his hand up his kilt. And here Arthur was worrying about Andrew. As soon as Alfred saw that Arthur had noticed, his fingers trailed across and lightly touched Arthur's free cock. Arthur breathed in sharply, trying to stop himself from reacting when he had barely been touched. His body didn't listen to him and he hoped that Alfred would leave the job half-finished.

But Alfred clearly had the same sexual intentions as Arthur for he gripped Arthur's dick so suddenly that the English student lost his breath in a hiss. Alfred laughed at that and leaned in for another kiss. As they kissed, Alfred slowly began to stroke him, building up speed until Arthur was gasping against his lips, their kisses becoming sloppy.

It took a while for his lust-filled brain to catch up with events and realise that Alfred wasn't being pleasured. In fact, Arthur was clutching at the back of Alfred's shirt, his arms draped around Alfred's shoulders. Panting and moaning, he pulled away from Alfred's lips. “You... I need...”

“I've gotcha, babe,” Alfred answered, swooping in for a kiss.

Arthur turned his head away. “No. I need to do you, too.”

“ _Oh_!” said Alfred, pulling away with a grin. “I'll let you make the discovery yourself.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur shifted so that he could push Alfred's kilt up a little. Then he reached under it and immediately found resistance in the form of boxers. His brows furrowed for a moment as he recalled the indignation from a few moments before but Alfred may have noticed for he twisted his hand _just so_ and Arthur melted a little, gasping at the pleasure tingling throughout his body.

“You can take 'em off,” Alfred encouraged him after he had been panting into the American's shoulder for a few seconds. “Go on. I'll stand up.” Being careful of what was in his hand, he did so, his kilt falling down again: Arthur refrained from rolling his eyes. Alfred continued his soft, slow strokes as he watched Arthur, still grinning.

Not waiting for much longer, Arthur flicked Alfred's kilt up and skirted his fingers along the waistband of his boxers, not caring about the weight that struck his wrist as the sporran dropped back down. He heard Alfred quietly gasp and he delighted in the fact that he wasn't the only one who was sensitive tonight. Curling his fingers around the elasticated part of the garment, he glanced up at Alfred who looked to be holding his breath. In the dim light, Alfred's eyes seemed a lot darker – or maybe that was his lust. Then, in one swift motion, he tugged Alfred's boxers down and dropped them, keeping eye contact.

Smiling happily to himself, he let his hand trail upwards, pleased to see Alfred biting his lip as his fingers ghosted across his skin. Then, finally, he brushed against the tip of Alfred's member and heard him gasp. He grinned up at him to find him grinning as well.

“Aha,” said Alfred, panting a little.

“Aha?” asked Arthur, blinking up at him.

Presumably, Alfred put on his best approximation of a Scottish accent. “Ye've foun' Nessie, hen.”

Arthur stared at him. He knew they were both geeks and/or nerds but this was a bit much. So he gave Alfred a pained look. “Please don't do that again?”

“What, the Scottish accent or the joke?”

“Both,” Arthur decided. “Your own accent is much more of a turn on and we're far past breaking the ice.”

“Aw, c'mon. My joke wasn't _that_ -”

He never got to finish his sentence for Arthur grasped his dick and he gasped – rather loudly – instead. Smirking, Arthur began to pump him, watching Alfred shudder in pleasure. Then Alfred remembered his own hand and they were soon jerking each other off.

As Arthur felt the heat pooling in his stomach, he forced his muddled head into action. “What-” he panted. “What've you got... in your... sporran?”

“Uh, crap,” Alfred replied, just as breathless. “I didn't expect ta see ya. I don't have anything.”

“Shit. Neither do I,” Arthur said, slowing down. And here he'd been thinking they were going to have sex – not that he was complaining about his handjob. Though... “Wait a second...”

Hurriedly, he unzipped his sporran and rummaged through it, ignoring his phone and wallet and some of the flyers he'd been given. Underneath the key to his flat, he found what he was looking for and pulled out a bottle. “There were people giving out products from some sort of health and beauty place which has just opened.”

“Oh? What'd you get?”

“Hand lotion.” One side of Arthur's mouth quirked up. “If you come closer we can use it.”

Alfred's grin returned. Without consultation, he grabbed the bottle and twisted the top off. “Let me do it,” he told Arthur with a wink. “You just hang on for the ride.”

“And why not me?”

“Because I really wanted to bend ya over the table and this is better than nothing.”

“Oh,” Arthur breathed, eyes widening as his cheeks darkened.

“Mm.” Alfred poured some onto his hands and rubbed them a little till he deemed them warm enough. Then he stepped up in front of Arthur, grabbed his legs, pulled him closer and left them looped around his waist. Arthur didn't hesitate to tighten the grip and throw his arms around Alfred as the man lifted both their kilts and pressed closer.

They both gasped at the contact, skin on skin.

Arthur couldn't resist rutting against him and Alfred did the same, both of them keen on the increasing pressure as they moved steadily closer. Then Alfred's hand closed around them and Arthur let out a breath, throwing his head back. God, that felt good. It felt all the better when Alfred began moving, starting off with slow, simple strokes. Arthur found himself rocking into his strong grip, letting his head fall forward and onto Alfred's shoulder.

A sudden twist of Alfred's hand had Arthur moaning, increasing in volume as Alfred continued to deftly stroke them both. He continued rocking but a particularly loud cry made him seek something to do with his mouth. So he began to pepper kisses across Alfred's face. The man let out a breathless laugh. Smiling, he kissed across his jaw, tasting the sweat he was building up. Teasingly, he licked up a bead of sweat and he felt Alfred shudder as he moaned into Arthur's ear. Arthur groaned in response and quickly latched onto Alfred's earlobe, nibbling at it.

The loud groan from Alfred indicated he liked that so Arthur continued to nibble and suck on it, even licked along the cartilage. So occupied, he didn't notice Alfred looming over him until he felt teeth on his neck. He sucked in a breath as Alfred began to suck and bite at him, licking at the spot as he moved a few centimetres to the left. The repeated action had Arthur panting into Alfred's ear, the heat pooling in his stomach, desperately trying to keep hold of Alfred's ear to muffle his moans.

Unfortunately, Alfred dipped lower, his ear slipping from Arthur's lips as Alfred managed to take advantage of Arthur's open shirt and began to leave a hickey on his collarbone. It was such a pleasurable feeling that Arthur forgot about where he was and merely wrapped his arms more completely around his lover. A particularly sharp nip had him cry out. Alfred seemed to realise he may have gone too far because he started to pull away, his hand slowing.

Arthur was having none of that: he slid his hands up to Alfred's head and forced him back down, his fingers tangling in his amazingly soft hair. Luckily, Alfred took the hint, going back to his biting, sucking and licking, a hypnotic rhythm. At random intervals, Alfred cleverly bit down harder and Arthur would call out every time. And, each time, Arthur's legs tightened around Alfred as he felt the pressure building, his hands tugging gently on Alfred's hair. The harder he tugged, the more Alfred moaned into Arthur's neck.

Eventually growing fed up with Alfred's steady pace when he was so near, Arthur removed a hand from Alfred's hair – trusting Alfred would continue with his ministrations despite the decrease in resistance – and thrust it down between their bodies. He quickly found their cocks, grasping the slippery organs. Alfred grunted into his neck, his mouth merely brushing against Arthur's neck as he waited to see what Arthur was going to do. The Englishman in question, rubbed his hand up and down, collecting a mixture of lotion, sweat and pre-cum until he felt his hand was wet enough and began to stroke them both – at an entirely different pace and direction from Alfred's hand.

Alfred himself faltered, gasping into Arthur's neck. His breath did funny things to Arthur's body, stealing his own air. They both kept stroking, though their surroundings were forgotten. Now they were moaning and crying out, gasping and groaning, as loud as they wanted. Their hands sped up as they tried to outdo each other or catch up until they were both working at a furious pace, their hands knocking into each other.

“Oh, fuck,” said Alfred, suddenly, his voice strained. “Fuck, fuck, Artie, shit. I- _Fuck_.”

“Yeah?” Arthur replied, barely able to speak himself, the pressure beginning to become too much. “Yeah? Me too, Al.”

“T-Together?”

“Uh huh,” Arthur grunted. “Go... _faster_.”

Instantly obeying, Alfred did so and Arthur couldn't hold back any more. He felt himself come, shouting out Alfred's name, freezing for a few seconds till he went limp. The stickiness of his hand increased as Alfred came at the same time, calling out Arthur's shortened name. They both collapsed against each other, sated for the moment. Their hands let themselves go and Alfred used both of his to steady himself against the table. Arthur could feel himself slipping backwards with Alfred's weight but he didn't rightly care.

It was some time before Arthur came back to himself and, by that point, he was lying flat out on the uncomfortable surface of the table. Alfred lay atop him, his bottom half hanging off the table so that he had his face in Arthur's stomach. Realising his legs were still locked around Alfred in a death grip, Arthur untangled them and groaned at the pins-and-needles which made itself known.

Alfred seemed to realise it was time to move because he pushed himself up till he stood over Arthur. Reaching out, Alfred pulled him up before tugging out a chair and collapsing in it. Using his clean hand, Alfred ran a hand through his hair. “ _Damn_ ,” he breathed, looking up at Arthur with an air of awe about him.

“My thoughts exactly,” Arthur said. “Well, that and that we have nothing to clean up with...”

“Ah, actually!” Alfred exclaimed and hastily opened his sporran. “I've got some tissues. We're all cool.”

“Huh. Good.” Arthur accepted the one held out to him and wiped off his hand. His kilt was going to need a good wash but he didn't bother trying to clean up at the moment.

“Uh, hey...” Alfred sounded hesitant and he paused, choosing to throw his balled up handkerchief into the bin in the corner rather than continue. Arthur tried to copy him, missed but waited patiently to hear what Alfred wanted to say. “I know... I know we've done this sort of in the wrong order, but...”

“Yes,” said Arthur, smiling at his companion.

“Wha-?”

“You're going to ask me on a date, right?”

Groaning, Alfred buried his face in his hands. “Yeah. God, I don't know why I didn't just wait. But it's been weeks and... just...”

“Hush, hush,” said Arthur as he jumped off the table. He cupped Alfred's face in his hands and tilted it up. Smiling, he said, “Don't worry about it. I don't mind.”

“Really?”

Arthur chuckled. “Honestly.” He pressed a fairly chaste kiss to Alfred's lips, smiling against them. Alfred was smiling, too, as he kissed back. When he pulled away, Arthur added, “Though, I think, if you want more than one date out of this, it might be a good idea to leave the sex till another time.”

“Man,” Alfred murmured. “I bet going all the way with you would be _awesome_.” Then, without warning, he grabbed Arthur around the waist and pulled him onto his lap. “But, while I'm _waiting_ , we can still make out, right?”

“Snogging is perfectly acceptable. But we should probably get back to the dance soon.”

Alfred grinned, his smile so radiant Arthur could see it in the dimness. “I'm sure they can wait.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case you're wondering, they're both attending Glasgow University. I've never been in their Union (either of them - I think there's two for some reason) but I based the hall and the little conference rooms on the Union I have been in.
> 
> Ceilidhs always start with the Gay Gordons. It's the simplest dance and everyone brought up in Scotland knows how to do it. I still manage to mess it up, though, as do others when we've accidentally kept spinning instead of waltzing. (I say waltzing - most of the time, you grab each others hands and skip around in a circle. Figured Artie would actually adopt a waltz position, though.)
> 
> I could have described the other dances but there are hunners and I can never remember which dance goes with which name. Which is why every ceilidh band has someone who tells us what we're supposed to be doing. Seriously, most conversation at a ceilidh is: "Dashing White Sergeant? Which one's that?" - "I dunno. But I think ya need three people for it." - "Wait, innit the one wi' four?" - "I wish they'd hurry up and tell us." It's usually followed with: "Oh, crap, we need another person. Who we gonna ask?" And, when it's at High School dances, that's usually followed with: "No! We're not asking him!" - "Why not?" - *lots of blushing*. Also, there always seems to be more girls than guys so the 'men' roles can be taken by whoever. No-one really cares.
> 
> The True Scotsman thing is a thing, by the way. Not many actually do it. Not many people have kilts, actually - they are pretty expensive if you're getting one to fit you right. Alfred has one because he bought one as soon as he landed in Scotland. This is because I've been to several international Scout camps (well, the same one in different years) and the Americans usually turned up with their own kilts and explained they'd been in Glasgow or Edinburgh before getting to the camp and had bought them. All the Scottish Scouts borrowed them. You can hire them, too, but those places generally frown on the True Scotsman thing.
> 
> The True Scotsman thing is definitely to blame for this, by the way, because as soon as Zeplerfer said she wanted kilts, that's what came to mind...
> 
> By the by, this is part of a series because I thought of a second part to the kilts story. It's set in July, though, so I could either write the next part now and post it ASAP or I could wait till around the 4th and post it for Al's birthday, since that's when it's set...


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